She felt a oneness with him that took away her breath.
He shifted on top of her, lifting his head from her shoulder to look her in the eye.
“You are okay?” he slurred, as if drunk, but it was simply the exertion that distorted his speech.
“Oh, yes, Milan.” She raised her neck to kiss him on the cheek.
“You don’t hurt your back?”
“Well, probably. But nothing fatal. Does this feel like a new start to you, too?”
“For us, you mean?”
“Among other things.”
“We should drink that champagne.”
Lydia quelled the urge to nag. It just wasn’t the time.
He eased himself out of her and crawled over to where the bottle stood. He picked it up and took a swig directly from it, gasping as the bubbles took effect.
He sat down next to Lydia, who was gingerly pushing herself into a sitting position, and raised the bottle to her.
“Here’s to music, love and laughter. And solo violins and virtuosi.”
He took another mouthful of champagne and lowered his lips to hers with the fizz still held inside.
When they kissed, he poured the stream of tingling liquid bubbles into Lydia’s mouth. She swallowed it down—most of the fizz had gone by then—spluttering slightly. He cleaned her mouth with a long, lavish lick of his tongue then broke the kiss, leaving her lips still stinging.
“And here’s to playing more than violins. Here’s to you and me.”
She sheltered herself in his arms, holding on to him, laying her head against his chest while he continued to drink from the champagne bottle.
Later, as they lay in bed, champagne all gone—mostly into Milan—Lydia started wondering if that really could be his final fling. He had drunk it quickly—within an hour—and seemed hardly the worse fo
r it. Over the past fortnight, she had seen him in full red-eyed slurring wreckage mode, but he had had to drink bottles and bottles to get that bad. He shouldn’t have such a high tolerance. It made her uneasy.
At least tonight he was happy-drunk. She had endured so many miserable nights of anger and recrimination, repeated over and over again because he had forgotten what had already been said. It had been a relief of sorts when he’d lapsed into Czech and she hadn’t had to listen to the endless litany of self-loathing and universal blame.
“So,” he said, speaking unexpectedly just as she thought he had fallen asleep. “This von Ritter.”
“What about him?” She yawned.
“He sounds like a drag. Pain in the ass.”
“You’ve never met him. Give him a chance.”
“Why?”
Lydia turned to him, frowning.
“Why not? Milan, you aren’t going to start all that again, are you? You’ve had your shot at conducting and you blew it.”
“What? I make one mistake while I am grieving and depressed, and that is me, finished in conducting forever? You can’t say that’s fair.”
“I’m not saying you’ll never conduct again, of course I’m not. Once the counselling is done and you’re able to pick up the pieces of your life… But that’s not now. And it’s certainly not going to happen if you start bullying the conductors again.”
“Who is bullying? I only said he sounds like a bad-tempered asshole. You want to work with a bad-tempered asshole, good luck to you. I don’t. That’s all.”